


wind velocity

by lady_peony



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M, and important accessories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natori has a fan. No, not that kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wind velocity

"I agree." A rustle of cloth, followed by shifting movements of feet on tatami. "The terms are not unreasonable. I'll require some time for preparations, of course."

"Of course," another voice answers. "Take a week, if you have to."

"I thank you, but two or three days should be enough. Until later." 

Seiji turns his head a fraction. Follows the drift of gold in the corner of his eye.

Not gold. Golden. Between fingertips, the laquer of the wood warms to a fine glow by torchlight.

A new weapon, perhaps. Not one unheard of. Scrolls have made mention of them in the past, as did his clan teachers. Occasional passages vaunted the victories other clans achieved, the ways they were used to good effect for defense, for battle against ayakashi foes.

Closed as it is, Seiji can spot no strokes of any charm, any spell inked on its folds. Unfortunate.

What he does know, is that _that person's_ house had not had anyone who had the nerve to test new techniques. Not for a long, long while. 

Excluding the present exception.

Natori pauses. Pulls back a sleeve lightly with one hand, tucking away his fan with the other, and goes.

Seiji draws back to the discussion in front of him. He resettles his hands on his lap. Circles his gaze around the waiting masks around him. The meeting may have dispersed, he reminds himself. His work has not.

 

-

 

The next time, the gathering is noticeably less formal. Not under a Matoba roof, this time. The group is smaller and less fixed in their shapes. The chatter is pitched louder. Quicker-paced, verging on boastful, aggressive even.

Still, there is a sound which rises higher than the voices.

Seiji slants his gaze, goes a little over the shoulder of the robe speaking to him. Better for Takagi-san, if he didn't notice Seiji's attention disassembling. 

It sweeps past his ears once more; swift-brushing wings against reeds.

Once more. And another. 

Another two figures move from the view. He sees it now. Now closed. Open. The paper is unmarked, he observes. Its shade is soft yellow, a match with its spread-out spines. An inch above its curve, the smile there is unworried, without a trace of deceit. The eyes even higher are intent. Fully alert.

The smile lifts. Separates. A taunt?

Seiji can't hear the words from here. 

"So on this problem, what suggestion would you have, Matoba-sama?"

Oh. Takagi-san had been speaking.

Seiji inclines his head. The paper above his eye skims closer against his eyelashes with the movement. "The Matoba clan will consider your request," he says, makes sure to weigh each word with the expected gravity.

He notes to consult Nanase-san at the soonest possible opportunity on Takagi-san's request.

 

-

 

That particular painting spills to the surface, unprompted. A small scene of a poetry contest in spring. One unnamed poet shown a little apart from a seated crowd, declared the most skilled by his fellows. 

That picture—the fan in his hands, the easy smile all brings with them certain associations.

The other speaker was not one he recognized by sight but the suggestion of a polite exchange had been present. Someone familiar then. Seiji had only come in too near the end for any specifics. Caught the sight of one bowing, the other a reflection. 

And after, a quiet snap of wood in Natori's palm, the folds closing in punctuation.

The stranger had spotted Seiji shortly, and had hurried forward to make introductions. If Natori had stayed longer or departed immediately, Seiji did not know. 

He should pull it back. 

He pulls back. Relaxes. Release.

Across the field, a solid-sounding thud echoes once. On target.

Seiji reaches his hand back, nocks another arrow, arms rising as he does so.

See. He is not affected.

 

-

 

Although the hour is not young the light is still clear, with a cool sharpness like glass. No candlelight is called for, not when most of the room is visible.

Unlike most times, he had no specific duties on his mind now. Other than observation, which was not unexpected for a Matoba clan head, or any clan head for the matter.

He watches other file in. Some head straight to the crowds circling in the front, navigating past favors and promises, strengthening alliances, cutting off others. Some choose to stay towards the back, not as willing to be seen. Placing themselves in a better position perhaps, to pick up new gossip, new bounties.

Natori enters accompanied by one of his shiki, the masked one with curled horns. It does not take long for him to find a seat. 

If Seiji happens to look over at him once or twice—there are always reasons. Friendly or not, any changes involving an active exorcist are things worthy of his attention. 

When Seiji next runs his gaze over the room, spotting some increasingly sloppy gestures with the increased imbibing of alcohol, Natori has not moved from his position.

A wrist lifts, arcs upwards with the fan. The closed fan touches briefly to Natori's lips, a seemingly unconscious gesture as his eyes narrow.

Between Seiji's own fingertips, his teacup slips. Only years of etiquette training and a quick flick of his right sleeve allows Seiji to avert its fall.

A masked servant at his side lifts a pot, asks if Matoba-sama would like a refill.

 

-

 

He does not see the fan again some weeks after. He is not sure if it had been a month or two months when he saw it last.

There had been no tell-tale line between Natori's palms, at the side of Natori's sash.

He should have felt relieved. 

Today had finished much quicker than was planned. All agreements had been ironed out, loyalties reassured, proper payments given under the span of two hours. His shiki had already been assigned the necessary messages as well.

He pauses on the step down. Turns his face to the right, without quite understanding why. 

Natori looks back at him. By the bulletin board, his raised hand drops. His other hand holds a tied scroll, a jar. Not a sealed one, not that Seiji can sense.

The polite thing, the proper thing would be to look the other direction. Continue his steps to where his servants were waiting. 

And yet. Seiji was never one to turn his face from any situation. 

And for Natori's part. He has not stepped back either.

The pair of lanterns by Seiji's head swings a little in a pull of wind. Their shadows flounder in answer, undecided.

Seiji opens his mouth.

When Natori leaves, a sigh of something like amber, of young trees stays behind, an impression too strong to ignore.


End file.
